


The Start of All Things That Are Left To Do

by Meduseld



Category: DCU, Wonder Woman (Movies - Jenkins), Wonder Woman - All Media Types
Genre: As in Antiope is a soldier and it's a big part of her, Bath Sex, F/F, Femslash February, Femslash February 2020, First Time, New Beginnings, Post-War, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Themyscira (DCU)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:40:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22966312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meduseld/pseuds/Meduseld
Summary: Themyscira is new and so is what lies between Antiope and Menalippe.
Relationships: Antiope/Menalippe (Wonder Woman)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 26





	The Start of All Things That Are Left To Do

**Author's Note:**

> Just under the wire for Femslash February, as it's still the 29th in my time zone.

The nights are not truly cold on Paradise Island. But they are windy.

Perhaps later, when they have built their buildings and palaces and finished planting their fields, there will be a windbreak. Now, still so new, the wind howls and pulls into every crack and crevice it can find along the half-finished palace walls, the only real structure standing of what will be a city.

The rest is a ring camp of tents behind it, which seems to keep worst of it away. And in the most protected little part of it is Hippolyta’s tent in deference to both her Royal status and her future mother of the weapon status. Antiope is not with her.

She's bunked at the far end at the windiest stretch, the place for a true soldier. She will say it is her duty to be there, but privately she is glad she is far.

All the Amazons gawk and stare at her sister as if it were the first pregnant belly they ever saw. Antiope loves her sister fiercely; the lump of flesh inside her not so much.

It is odd to think that the child, almost certainly a girl child, but then again Zeus is fond of his little jokes, will grow in a place where the buildings are no older than she is. Only the Amazons will be old.

That’s if it’s really a child at all. Antiope has her doubts. Perhaps, after centuries of war against the fiercest of foes, it is this that will undo them. This beautiful island, the one that Antiope mostly calls Themyscira, and a baby.

She can already see the first stirrings of an ignominious ending. Around the night fires, Antiope has seen the beginning of shivers. They will grow weak in this sheltered hot house, so even this will feel cold at night.

Antiope once fought in a place so far north that when she cut a man in half at the belly his innards froze as they spilled out of him.

There is a thought that follows, about what happened after, that she pushes away. It is not of his face, or the battle, or the stuck together corpses. She is a soldier, she knows to let them pass through her, that she must remember has seen worse sights than that.

And Homer stole that line, the drunken blind bastard. Antiope had tolerated him because of the love the Gods bore him and his flattery. It is unforgivably weak of her to long, even for a moment, for his presence. He’d be a lot of things, but boring wasn’t one of them.

Her mind, a general’s, punishes her for it by steering her back to the thought she dismissed. It had been Menalippe who had undone her greaves as they huddled in camp that night, sealed shut by blood and frost. Then she’d rubbed life back into her fingers, even though her own braids had been so soaked by gore than they glinted like ice.

They had slept on either side of Hippolyta that night, keeping her warm, comfortable. It was a place of honor. And the end of a long hard campaign where they had triumphed. Those days may never come again.

Even if Menalippe still brings her meals without being bid, because a general may watch over her soldiers but not eat with them. In the past, they would work over maps and strategies as they ate.

There was something about speaking to her, the quiet way she would nod and point, the end of her black braid gliding over the table, that would make things clearer in Antiope’s head, preempt the questions Phillipus would ask, the doubts that would need to be assuaged. Divine inspiration without any need for sacrifice.

For now there is still work, buildings to raise, aqueducts to dig, walls to fortify, and contingencies to organize. The home for the Mother Box, after all, was the first thing they built, far from camp.

Antiope’s opinion matters, just for a bit longer. She doesn’t know what she’ll do when it doesn’t. It is enough to make her restless, to make her go and roam the perimeter.

Her scouts report no dangerous wildlife, no wolves or boars. No living thing but what they brought.

They’re maintaining discipline for now, no wandering off alone, but, for the first time, not because of a lurking enemy.

Just because the risk of an accident is too great, the land still mostly unknown, and no hospital building yet.

Antiope has hardly stepped beyond the lines of her tent before Menalippe, red-cloaked and staring into a fire, rises to join her.

She turns to say something, assure her it’s just a quick walk and she’ll return, to be met with Menalippe and an archly raised brow. Antiope shuts her mouth and nods, caught out. At least she won’t be disobeying her own orders, walking with a pair.

The air smells sweet as they walk, away from the noise and fires, the smell of cooking meat and working bodies. The sentinels salute as they pass, silent as shadows.

Menalippe is a good companion.

Most think she’s very quiet, that maybe she’s not too bright, that maybe she’s shy. Antiope knows she thinks most words are wasted, and she has no trouble making herself understood. Even from across a raging battlefield.

There were other Amazons, bolder, more clever, wise or more underhanded and none of them lived long enough to reach this place. And none helped her pick the flecks of bone and skull from her skin, with the patience and care Menalippe brings to everything she does. Even warfare.

They walk like they soldiers they still are, for now, Menalippe a step behind Antiope, both of them observing everything and admiring nothing. Even though there’s nothing to see, just young and growing trees, the paths they’ve cut into the land, an owl or two.

The world must have been like this when it began, but Antiope doesn’t remember it that way. She was born to war, the only reason she was forged. To be her sister’s strong right hand.

“The baths” Menalippe whispers when they come to the farthest point of the not road they’ve been building. They want to put a lighthouse at the end, when the time comes.

Menalippe is right that traipsing through the untamed woods right now is foolish and irresponsible, and exactly what Antiope wants to do.

If it had been Phillipus with her, calling Antiope reckless to her face, she’d find an excuse into the undergrowth. If it was her sister, she would have carried the kernel of resentment at her breast, bowing to hide her eyes while breathing “Yes, my Queen”. But it’s Menalippe and her soft voice, not looking into Antiope’s eyes.

So they take the other fork, an even wilder not yet path, to the hot springs they found. A gift from Zeus, if you believe Hippolyta. Antiope thinks maybe it’s just a natural consequence of how he formed the island. Or he wanted a place to lounge and fuck if he ever made his way down here.

Gods never think they can be killed. Antiope knows that first hand. Their faces are always more shocked than that of men. It never crossed their minds that their lives, as such could end.

“Heavy thoughts” Menalippe says, coming close to teasing, even though there’s no way she can see Antiope’s face at the moment.

Antiope wonders if she will keep shadowing her steps in this new bright land. Maybe she will fall madly for a foot soldier and ask permission to marry.

For now, Hippolyta has asked a moratorium on the subject, until they are fully settled. But it’s been all but stated that the celebrations will kick off with a dozen weddings, at least.

Maybe enough for Hippolyta to lose her voice. The duty would then fall to Antiope. It’s not one she relishes. But it is better than taking over at funerals.

The last time Antiope had wept was when Priam laid to rest Hector, tamer of horses. She had made sure Homer had gotten that part right, at least.

The glow from the pools kept the stone passages they have cut and refined something close to lit. Menalippe still sets fire to a torch and places it near the door, the way down is dark, after all, and will be when they ascend back up to the path.

For a moment, Antiope gazes at her the way a general should. Making sure she sets her blades down properly, in reach, settles her clothes in a way she can put back on easily, or kick out of her way if there’s no time. Then she looks up, into that solemn, lovely face.

Antiope has seen with her own eyes Athena, Aphrodite, even Persephone herself once, and none of them came close to being as beautiful as Menalippe standing in front of her unafraid, her dark hair hanging down like a river and the thatch between her legs so incredibly enticing that Antiope has to look away.

She busies herself with her own armor, so ridiculous here, though wouldn’t it be just the way of the world if it was now that the crisis struck, Ares come from on high to kill the Godkiller in her sister’s womb, and Antiope naked and derelict in her duties.

At least, she thinks as she angles her own sharp knife near the edge of the water and keeps her hair tightly braided, there is nothing else she knows of that would tempt her. And it took the end of all things, as she knew them, to get her to accept that, she thinks as she carefully lowers herself into the water.

Not that Menalippe is offering. She has never offered. Antiope doesn’t think she will. She doesn’t know what she would say even if she did.

In the time before, there was always the war, her armies, something else that she loved more. Now she has nothing. Which means of course, there is no reason for Menalippe to want her.

If she did not love the warrior, she will not love whatever is left after the fighting is done.

Antiope is so focused on not slipping, keeping her toes grasping the slick rocks under the water, that she does not feel Menalippe quietly sidling up next to her. Until she looks up and Menalippe shoots water right into her face from her cupped hands.

Antiope brushes her back but she’s already retreating, grinned with a chin dipped into the water, her dark hair around her like an inky cloud.

If the sirens that called to Odysseus were even half as lovely, Antiope understands why he had to be tied to mast. She’d have jumped.

Whatever Menalippe sees in her face makes her tilt her head and float closer.

“Did I upset you?” she murmurs. There’s no need to whisper but the sense of the space, dark and close, everything echoing.

Antiope shakes her head, feeling foolish. She’s ruined everything without even saying anything out loud.

Give her a sword and a battlefield and she’s comfortable, a simple bath and she’s as green as an untried _boy_.

Antiope pulls herself back to the ledge, feeling better just by sitting by the knife. She should go.

Instead she lets her legs idle in the water, Menalippe’s eyes watching her, huge and dark in the depths.

For a moment they just look at each other, Antiope wreathed in vapor as she cools. Then Menalippe cuts through the heart of the pool to float in front of her knees.

Antiope has seen her bare chest before, pulled an arrow from her ribs, but she had never been enticed until now, the way the rise and fall of the water just barely covers her breasts, the possibility more tempting and tantalizing than seeing them plain.

Their breath is suddenly very loud and Menalippe raises one pale, slim finger from the water, the tip hovering just over Antiope’s knee. It raises goosebumps all over her skin, more charged than a touch would be.

“May I?” she says, lips brushing the water, suddenly shy, and Antiope is nodding, acquiescing, though she doesn’t know what she is accepting. Menalippe folds like it was a blow, her forehead dropping onto Antiope’s shin, lips working like she’s saying a prayer.

It’s sweet, almost chaste. It doesn’t stay that way.

Teeth drag up Antiope’s calf, Menalippe’s hands wrapped around her ankle, the sensation so strong that Antiope’s thighs part without her command.

Menalippe moves up her body, hands reaching up as she rises like a sea goddess, dripping and leaving warm, wet kisses on her sin that make Antiope shiver.

It’s ridiculous that she still jumps at the brush of his lips on the inside of her thigh, Menalippe’s thumbs digging into her knees to pull them even further apart.

Her touch is gentle on the tender skin and Antiope finds herself moaning, canting her hips forward. She has never done this. She has never _wanted_ to. Now she feels on fire with desire.

Her back arches at the feeling of Menalippe’s breathing right over her aching, swollen sex, not yet touching her but flooding her whole body with heat.

Antiope looks down, meets those dark eyes, gone even darker with lust, head down. And then she sees just the tiniest pink hint of Menalippe’s tongue and she is lost.

Her head thrown back on its own, eyes closed as she feels the first, gentle stroke of it, her body strumming with it.

Menalippe pulls back and she could cry at the loss, but all Menalippe is doing is softly kissing her, like she needs to do that, first, before dragging the flat of her tongue heavily against the place Antiope is wettest.

It is charming and filthy all at once, like bitter honeyed wine. And just as intoxicating. Her blood is buzzing.

She doesn’t think of what Menalippe is doing as teasing until she finally, finally, settles her mouth fully on Antiope and begins to suck.

Antiope screams. It only seems to spur Menalippe on.

They slide, moving across the smooth stone like ice, until Antiope is arching on her back, Menalippe’s face buried between her legs, strong hands keeping her thighs apart so she won’t be crushed. Inanely, Antiope thinks _the torch has gone out_ only a moment before she peaks. Her muscles soften, making her feel like she’s melting, pleasantly, into the floor.

Antiope rolls her head back to gaze at Menalippe, smiling like a fool, as she climbs over her body, to look her in the face. Menalippe braces on elbow by Antiope’s head and for a moment she’s fascinated by the way she looks broken open, hair wild and mouth open.

That’s when she realizes Menalippe has laid down her right arm, because her strongest hand is her left and it’s working between her thighs.

Her fingers have a mind of their own when they lift and join Menalippe’s, just as quickly growing wet and slick. Antiope savors the punched out groan she pulls from Menalippe. Her other thumb grazes her lip, then presses in.

She knows that Menalippe peaks more from the press of her teeth on the pad of her thumb than the way she clenches around the fingers of her other hand. Menalippe hovers for a moment, face completely wiped, before collapsing on Antiope’s chest.

It feels good. She never thought it would feel that way. The only other times she’s had a body on top of hers it was dead or about to be. Menalippe is warm, and breathing.

If this is what it feels like, she can begin to understand. Perhaps Hippolyta is not so different from her after all. But she will never understand the thing with Heracles.

It is that thought, and the way the stone is beginning to dig into her back, that has her moving. Menalippe, to her credit, follows immediately. No rebukes or clinging.

Perhaps it was an amusement. Antiope could live with that. There will be many cold nights to come, after all.

They dress in moments, like true warriors, putting their weapons back in their sheaths. It is only when they are nearly back on Themyscira’s surface, Antiope’s foot on the last stone step carved by their masons when Menalippe touches her armored back.

It is fleeting, but it is a plea. Antiope turns, cautious. Perhaps they will not leave this little misadventure as unscathed as she thought. Even if her back is aching already.

“Please” Menalippe says, looking something like miserable. It hurts more than she thought. “Please could I just, just this once-” she tries, words forsaking her.

Finally, she reaches out with trembling fingers for Antiope’s jaw. She lets herself be drawn in.

The kiss is fast, dry. Like something stolen, more than given.

Antiope’s eyes are open, watching the triumphant and devastated look on Menalippe’s face, eyes shut and eyelashes fluttering like insects. It is not enough.

Antiope reaches out herself, tracing her knuckles down Menalippe’s cheek. They kiss properly, this time.

Antiope could drown herself in these kisses. Then she pulls back, because knowing to deny yourself is one of a soldier’s best skills.

“We must return” she says and Menalippe nods quickly, pale and lovely in the moonlight.

The walk back is easy, their steps silent. In their night-dark cloaks, they must look like nymphs, of wood or wind.

When Antiope spots the glows of the fires through the trees, she stops. Their lights have barely dimmed, it hasn’t been long since they’ve been gone.

“That cannot happen again” she says into the dark. She feels Menalippe’s instant, gutted nod.

“Because for now it is forbidden. At least until the palace walls are built” she adds, still looking forward.

Behind her, Menalippe lights up like the sun. She can feel it, in her skin, blooming like the bruises Menalippe pressed into her thighs. Antiope will have to keep her cloaks closed for a few days.

They walk back into the camp side by side, the backs of their hands brushing.

It is easy to say good night. Antiope’s tent is cold, but not enough to justify a bedmate. Perhaps the soldiers sleeping out on their rolls will share.

Menalippe won’t, with any of the other three in the lieutenant’s tent, she’s sure. Tonight, they will sleep alone.

But tomorrow, Antiope has a meeting about the building of the palace. Hippolyta keeps telling her she should ask for more, that the ascetic quarters she’s drawn are unfitting for a general.

Usually, Antiope says that as a soldier she needs no more. Now, she plans to relent.

She’d like to have a bath put in.

**Author's Note:**

> The title had to be a Hozier song, in this case _[Wasteland, Baby!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N4rKN_qW5DU)_ because it's a love song for the end of the world, which is what this feels like to Antiope, but it’s a new beginning too.
> 
> The Amazons [fought on Troy’s side](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Amazons) and Greek myth references scattered throughout are _meant_ to be accurate. Not particularly relevant, but this mostly written with _[Girls](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Orffm0v0mS0)_ by Beatrice Eli or _[Kore Waits in the Underworld](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0XV4p7ccE7k)_ by Tiny Ruins playing.


End file.
